


As Red as Martian Sands

by AshHeart101



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Aurinko Crime Family, Heist, Other, Suggestive Themes, post-Juno Steel and the Man in Glass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25908118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshHeart101/pseuds/AshHeart101
Summary: Traveling with a party of six through intergalactic space needed money, many of which the members were sorely lacking, from failed business agreements to crippling debts.--A heist on Titan.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	As Red as Martian Sands

While the Cure Mother was the prize of their operations, with several key items to be requisitioned for their plan to succeed, it was not the only thing the crew of the Carte Blanche required. Traveling with a party of six through intergalactic space needed money, many of which the members were sorely lacking, from failed business agreements to crippling debts.

Miss Octavia Argon’s annual ball on Titan, an heiress to a metal manufacturing conglomerate, commemorating the anniversary of her great, great grandmother’s inventions that served as the backbone and lifeblood of her acquired wealth, was a perfect pitstop. Argon was an avid collector of unique jewels with hefty price tags, likely because she enjoyed the number of creds it took to purchase them. Her collection was televised semiannually for their “historical significance,” and the more people got to see what they could not have, the more they wanted it.

Suffice to say, it took less than a day to find a fence and haggle a price that would solve most of their more pressing concerns for the future.

Peter was almost languishing over the loss of participating closely in the actual acquisition of Argon’s most ancient and prized possession, an Earthen crown from the last monarch of the 22nd century, but that disappointment did not shadow him for long.

He could always steal it another time.

Instead, he let himself be driven by his alias and that alias’ role: an observant shadow in the crowd, ready to disappear at a moment’s notice.

Juno’s eye caught his—a brief glance from across the room, corners crinkled with something mirthful—before his back turned, focus returning to Ms. Argon. Neither of their voices were distinguishable among the murmurs of the filled ballroom.

Peter forced his attention away, a lilting voice calling him with an inquisitive, “Sir?”

The heist was mundane. There were no surprises, no hasty changes to their security measures; cameras were trained on the wandering guests exactly to the schematics Rita had acquired the previous night. While the guards were armed with loaded phasers and severe expressions, a potential concern for a lone thief, he was confident of the stealth of their co-operatives further inside of the manor, the room in which the crown and other priceless artifacts was securely kept, and sure of Ms. Argon’s stolen attention.

He could not particularly blame her. Juno wore a gown as red as Martian sands, with lipstick to match, dark, marred skin exposed along the length of his spine. Neck and ears adorned with long strings of diamonds (courtesy of Mr. Alec Stone from the gala on Venus), he was imposing and distracting enough to keep most of the ball’s attendees from noticing their rings and watches stolen from their fingers and wrists.

It was a temptation that he pointedly ignored, a far more pronounced, sweltering sensation curling in his stomach and wrapping around his throat and chest. He quickly pressed his hand against his mouth, feeling the corners of his lips stretch.

Weeks ago, when having seen Juno Steel with Zolotovna at the auction, he had been angry. His final night on Mars was a memory he had tried to forget since waking in an empty bed. Now, with an apology and vulnerability he had not once expected to be offered to him by the proud, stubborn detective, his ire had fled and was replaced with a contentment he had not felt since. Jealousy now settled around his lungs less like smoldering irons, but a ravenous longing that threatened to burst from his chest. The lightness of it bubbled and poured from his mouth as a stifled laugh with his palm and pressed lips.

Even when he caught from the corner of his eye Ms. Argon’s hand brushing against one of the ruffles of Juno’s gown, he did not feel the lead weight of hot anger, but an unfurling, languid warmth low in his stomach.

He luxuriated in the feeling as he passed stems of champagne to the hands of posh, elegant socialites and dignitaries. Juno was kept within his peripheral, watching his blind side where Juno could not. Argon grew bolder the longer they spoke, her arm draped around his waist. Juno did not lean into it, but rose his chin to laugh, more boisterously than whatever joke or comment made likely necessitated. The alias for the evening demanded it, disparaging and unrefined, but sharp witted and mesmerizing. Pride pricked at his spine, a tremble that fed and condensed the fervor spreading through him.

The comm nestled in his ear chirped with an oncoming transmission and his focus shifted, although the heat did not fade.

“Ransom,” Buddy greeted over the opened line, satisfaction coiling around her words like a pleased cat. “We’ve returned to the ship. Jet will be arriving for you shortly.”

“Understood,” he answered, gaze sweeping to the stationary guards dispersed at the restricted entrances, their faces remaining just as severe as they had for the past hour, unchanged and unperturbed. He did not bother asking as to the particulars of their success outside of the debriefing that would follow on board.

“Don’t dawdle, darlings,” she said, a taunt that ended with the chirp of a disconnected transmission, and the pleasure in him did not abate in the slightest.

Juno’s head lifted from the conspiratorial whispers he was sharing with Ms. Argon, his stance shifting, a thin smile and quick word excusing him from her company. He disappeared towards the restrooms. He did not glance his way. In twenty minutes, Peter would be joining him.

The time between was arduously slow, a torture that was as pleasurable as it were painful, Basil Bloom, an energetic, charming but unsophisticated server, providing champagne to increasingly tipsy guests while Peter Nureyev envisioned red fabric gathered in his hands, solid pressure against his chest, and the glimpse of scars on an arched back.

He repressed the hastiness of his step when it was time to go, lost in the crowd of servers shuffling between the ball room and kitchens, there and gone.

**Author's Note:**

> My first ficlet I've written in years! I have no idea if there will be a continuation to this or left as is, but I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.


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